


Welcome to Humanity

by Winnywriter



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Fallen Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2012-09-24
Packaged: 2017-11-14 23:27:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winnywriter/pseuds/Winnywriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is falling, slowly but surely becoming fully human. Every day there is something new to discover, and many of those discoveries are not wholly pleasant ones. And the whole time, Dean can't help but worry about the fact that the further the angel falls, the more he finds he likes the human Cas is becoming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome to Humanity

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my wonderful beta maeleene for helping me get this shaped up. :) 
> 
> The characters used in this story are not my own; I'm only borrowing them for a little while.

It started with a sneeze.

  
It was a simple enough thing, really – not something that should have caused much of an interruption to anyone's daily life, and it probably wouldn't have, had the circumstances been different. But the explosive sound hadn't come from Sam or from Dean; it had come from Castiel.  
  
It was a big one too - practically punched its way out of him, and afterward, Castiel looked pretty damn similar to someone who had just been struck in the face out of nowhere.  
  
The shock gave way to confusion, and then to something that looked a bit like mild terror.  
  
“What...was that?” he mused.  
  
Dean looked from Sam to Cas and back again, suppressing a laugh that fizzled out of existence when he realized the angel was serious. “That was a sneeze, dude,” he said, nodding his head toward Cas and arching an eyebrow.  
  
“Oh...” Castiel shifted in place, staring down at the floor.  
  
“Are you...okay?” Sam hazarded.  
  
“I believe so. Although...” That same look of mild terror that he'd worn before returned, and this time it had worked its way up to one just the slightest bit more frantic. “Sneezes are often a sign of illness, if I'm correct...” The angel raised his hands out in front of him, staring down at his palms before clenching his fists. “Which would mean it is happening much more quickly than I'd anticipated...”  
  
“They're not always,” said Sam with a shrug. “Sometimes they just...happen. Kinda like hiccups or something.”  
  
Castiel sat down at the table to join them, clasping his hands before him and not looking up at either of the Winchesters just yet. The motel room fell eerily silent. “I have not experienced that yet,” he mumbled. After a moment's silence, he added, “I suppose I just never thought it would be so...violent.”  
  
“Well, bless you,” Dean said with a subtle chuckle.  
  
The angel muttered: “That's somewhat redundant, Dean.”

* * *

  
The sheer cruelty in all this was that it was happening slowly. Every day there was something new to discover, and most of the time the discoveries were not wholly pleasant ones. As Castiel's Grace seeped out of him over the course of days, Sam and Dean couldn't help but think of how akin it was to watching someone decline into illness toward the inevitable end.  
  
That must have been what it felt like for Cas, though they had to admit there was something slightly insulting in the comparison of humanity to death.  
  
Castiel didn't talk much about it, and neither Sam nor Dean brought it up to him. It was understood already between the three of them that they all knew what was happening and what was to come. Castiel wasn't exactly a “talk out your feelings” kind of guy, and though Sam certainly seemed more willing to to turn a drive in the Impala into a therapy session, Dean was just fine letting Cas deal with things in the confines of his own skull: the Winchester method, tried and true, patent pending.  
  
Not that he wouldn't have listened if Cas did decide to talk, but he wasn't going to push it.  
  
It did lead to a long and very quiet drive, however. With such an elephant in the Impala, it was hard to hold up a conversation without awkward pauses or sudden cut-offs when someone mentioned the word “angel” or “heaven” or “god” or “fall.” Dean couldn't even listen to “Stairway to Heaven” without feeling like he was stomping on some serious eggshells.  
  
So he drove. Nobody spoke.  
  
Except, at long last, for Cas. Although, _he_ didn't speak so much as his stomach did. And as far as ‘speaking’ went...well, it was more of an indignant gurgle.  
  
Castiel stared down at his stomach with a stern look of disapproval, as if it had taken the Lord's name in vain.  
  
“You hungry, dude?” asked Sam, the slightest hint of an amused smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.  
  
“I shouldn't require food,” Cas said bitterly, stressing the ‘shouldn't’ harshly. His stomach growled again, and he glared at it.  
  
“Hard to argue with that,” Dean said. “We'll stop off at the next exit, grab a bite. I could eat. How about you, Sammy?”  
  
“You can always eat,” Sam pointed out. Dean elbowed him, and Sam winced slightly as he massaged his arm. “Yeah, I could eat, I guess.”  
  
“Great. They better have a good burger joint.”  
  
Despite his bitterness, Cas seemed to perk up at the mention of burgers.

* * *

  
There was one diner in the middle of the dinky little one-stoplight town they arrived in, and it looked like it had been there since before the ground beneath its foundation had finished cooling. The linoleum was peeling under their feet as they walked to their table, and the seats sank so low that even Sam looked to be an almost normal height when he sat down.  
  
“This place doesn't seem sanitary,” Cas said as he eyed the crumbs littering the smooth surface of the table. He reached for a napkin to wipe them away and grimaced when his hand came away sticky.  
  
“Yeah well this booth is probably older than you are anyway,” Dean said, glancing at a menu, whose corners were bent and split from years of abuse without any hope of replacement. Some of the prices were scribbled out and amended with black sharpie to compensate for the fact that the original amounts had probably been decided upon in the early fifties.  
  
“That's highly unlikely, Dean. In fact, it's impossible for-”  
  
“What can I get you boys to drink?” droned the waitress who had appeared beside them. Her voice was nasally to the point of being grating, words sandpaper-rough and spoken through breath tinged with the sharp odor of cigarettes. Hell, forget the tables; this woman was probably the oldest thing here. Cas included.  
  
“Just water for me, thanks,” said Sam.  
  
“For me as well,” Cas added, still staring at the sticky table with disapproval in his eyes.  
  
“I'll have a Coke,” said Dean with a grin.  
  
“We have Tab Cola.”  
  
His face fell. “Ah...water for me too then, thanks...” The waitress coughed into her wrist and marked the order down with a barely-suppressed sigh before she turned from them without another word.  
  
“She's not very polite,” Cas observed when she disappeared into the back.  
  
“Yeah, that happens when you pass a hundred and fifty,” Dean said. “You tend to stop giving a fuck.”  
  
“I doubt she's actually-”  
  
Sam coughed insistently: “Joke.”  
  
Cas looked crestfallen and just the slightest bit embarrassed. “Oh...I suppose I'll have to familiarize myself with such things before too long as well...” He stared at the salt shaker forlornly. Dean plopped a menu down in front of him.  
  
“They do have burgers,” he said, pointing to the smudged writing. “Best in town.”  
  
Sam rolled his eyes. “More like _only_ ones in town. I think I'll just get the salad.”

* * *

  
Cas did get the burger – medium rare with extra onions – and despite his apparent low mood, it seemed to lift his spirits. Maybe all the guy needed was to get his blood sugar back up to optimum levels. Hell, he'd actually have to keep after that kind of thing now. It was strange to think about.  
  
He took his first bite with enough gusto to put even Dean to shame as Sam picked at his salad and Dean slathered A1 over his steak. Cas was already halfway through the burger when Dean sliced off his first bite and speared it with his fork.  
  
“Slow down, man. You're gonna make yourself sick or something,” Dean chastised. Cas looked at him curiously, his mouth still full of burger, and he swallowed with some visible effort. “If you choke, I'm not giving you mouth-to-mouth, you hear me?”  
  
“Mouth-to-mouth would hardly be applicable in that situation, Dean,” Cas deadpanned. “And frankly, I worry about your first-aid skills if you're not familiar with the Heimlich maneuver.”  
  
“Well just for that, I'm not giving you the Heimlich either.”  
  
Cas took another large bite. “Perhaps having to eat regularly might not be so bad,” he mused.  
  
“You sure about that burger?” Sam asked dubiously. “It looks a little gray.”  
  
Cas paused a moment, chewing thoughtfully before saying, “It tastes just fine to me, Sam.”  
  
“It's fine. Probably just the shitty lighting in here or something,” said Dean. He chomped down on a generous portion of his steak. “Steak's good, anyway.”  
  
Dean realized that day how protective Cas was of his food when he tried to steal one of the angel's fries and got stabbed in the hand with a bent fork.

* * *

  
They peeled out of the parking lot with their stomachs full and their leftovers in styrofoam boxes in the back seat, and morale was somewhat higher thanks to a good meal. Dean turned up the volume as the opening chords “Smoke on the Water” filled the Impala and he grunted along with the sounds of the rough guitar solo. Cas, however, seemed a bit out of sorts, zoning out even more than normal, eyes glazed and unfocused. A pang of worry shot through Dean when he glanced at the angel in his rear view mirror; Cas looked clammy and was beginning to sweat despite it being the middle of November.  
  
“You okay there, Cas?” he asked.  
  
“I feel peculiar,” Cas mumbled.  
  
“Peculiar how?”  
  
“I don't know...” He furrowed his eyebrows. “Do you think you could drive straighter?”  
  
“Drive straighter?” Dean scoffed. “We're on the highway with no traffic. It doesn't get much straighter than this.” Cas groaned and leaned back against the seat, closing his eyes for a moment before seeming to realize it only made things about ten times worse. His hair was beginning to stick to his forehead and he reached up to wipe the sweat from his brow, his hand shaking.  
  
“I think something may be wrong,” Cas groaned.  
  
Dean's eyebrows knit together as Sam sighed beside him and mumbled, “I told you that burger didn't look right.”  
  
Cas went green, slapping a hand over his mouth as he lurched forward, and Dean slammed on the brakes.

* * *

  
Dean winced in empathy and disgust as Castiel emptied his stomach on the asphalt. “Seriously, Cas,” he said, “You're damn lucky you got out of the car in time. Because if you'd puked on this upholstery, I swear to God...”  
  
Cas shot him a sour, pained look before gagging again, grabbing onto the open door as he lost not only the burger, but also the fries and pickle. Sam looked on sympathetically for a moment before turning away with a grimace.  
  
“Why do I get the feeling burgers might be off the menu for a while?” he asked. Dean rolled his eyes, getting out of the car and helping Cas up out of the back seat, deftly avoiding the mess as he did so. The sour stench of vomit made his eyes water.  
  
“Come on, Cas...” he said. The angel slung an arm around Dean's shoulders, and the two of them made their way slowly to the side of the road, where Dean kicked away an empty beer bottle and helped Castiel sit down on the prickly grass by the asphalt. “Just sit a minute, okay? Get some air. Here.” He handed Cas a water bottle. “Rinse and spit, then drink.” Castiel took it and obeyed with all the energy and enthusiasm that was to be expected from someone who had just moments ago voided their stomach.  
  
Sam looked on from the Impala, leaning on the roof, and Dean waved at him. “Give us a minute,” he called.  
  
“You want the rest of that steak, Dean?” Sam snarked. Castiel visibly cringed, and Dean promptly flipped his brother the bird.  
  
Dean knelt in front of Cas as if he were talking to a young child, looking him in the eye as Castiel sipped gingerly at the water. “You alright?” he asked.  
  
“That was...unpleasant,” Cas admitted.  
  
“Yeah, puking usually is. But you know, welcome to humanity. A lot of it sucks.” The words obviously pained Cas, and Dean couldn't help but feel the slightest bit guilty. “But you know...not all of it. Food poisoning, though...that's definitely one of the lows.”  
  
“I feel like I've been punched in the gut...” Cas muttered.  
  
“Yeah, it'll do that to you.”  
  
“No, I mean every day. All the time.” Cas trained his gaze on Dean, looking him in the eye, his pain and fear swimming there in his irises. “Every time I'm reminded that I'm falling...it feels like this. It feels cold and constricting and...frightening...” He looked downright ashamed, and Dean felt himself getting anxious when he realized that Cas was actually confiding in him.  
  
“Look, everything seems bad now because we're sitting on the side of the road after you’ve puked your guts out. It's hard to see the bright side after something like that.” Castiel didn't seem to feel any better. He rested his forehead against the water bottle, brushing the cool, smooth surface against his clammy skin. Dean worried that the angel was going to vomit again.  
  
“I suppose...” Cas finally relented.  
  
Dean sighed and sat down next to Cas, thoughtfully flicking at an errant thread hanging off his shirt as he did. “So you're...scared,” he said cautiously.  
  
“Yes.” Before he could stop himself, Dean let out a quiet chuckle. Cas stared at him, confused and just the slightest bit ticked off. “Is it...funny to you?”  
  
“No, no,” Dean assured him. “I just, ah...I guess I never figured I'd hear you admit that.”  
  
“If I were still an angel...fully...I never would have.”  
  
Dean regarded him carefully for moment, brow furrowed. “You are still an angel, Cas.”  
  
Castiel was silent for a long time, staring at the water bottle in his hands before he said, “Angels don't vomit on the side of the highway. And they certainly don't feel fear like this.”  
  
Dean could only sit in silence for a frustratingly long time. There were people on this earth, he thought, that would know exactly what to say at a moment like this. Hell, maybe Sam was one of them; at the very least he would know better than Dean did. He'd probably have been able to force something out that sounded halfway sincere at least, rather than sit mutely on the asphalt. Maybe Dean just had to hope that the silence would say enough.  
  
So instead of lingering on what to say to Cas, after the quiet span of minutes had stretched on long enough, he just asked stiffly, “Listen, you gonna puke again?”  
  
Castiel visibly deflated, staring down at his half-empty water bottle. “I don't think so.”  
  
“Cause I swear, if you hurl in the back seat, so help me I will strap you to the roof.”  
  
“I'm not going to...hurl again, Dean.”  
  
“Alright then. Come on.” He stood, helping Cas up, and they returned to the Impala.  
  
Dean chucked the leftover steak onto the side of the road before they drove off. It wasn't all that good anyway.

* * *

  
Much to Dean's relief (and Castiel's too, he bet), they managed to make it back to Bobby's without another incident. It seemed that whatever it was that had made its way into Cas' burger, the angel had gotten it out of his system, so while he was still a bit pale as they pulled into the scrap yard, it appeared he was over the worst of it.  
  
Well, over the worst of the food poisoning, anyway; but in the grand scheme of things, the worst was still yet to come. For some reason, remembering that made Dean's stomach drop.  
  
That evening over dinner – after Cas had excused himself and retreated to the opposite side of the house where he wouldn't have to look at, smell, or in any way discuss food – Dean and Sam finally confided in Bobby about the bad news.  
  
“Whaddaya mean, he's falling?” the senior hunter barked.  
  
“I mean he's...falling,” said Dean. “He's going full human. He's mojo's trickling away like gasoline through a fuel leak.”  
  
“How did it even happen? I mean, I know he wasn't exactly lined up to get employee of the month up in Heaven, but...why now?”  
  
“We don't know,” Sam said, sympathy in his voice. “I don't even think he knows. I mean, these are angels we're talking about.”  
  
“The great, cosmic assholes,” Dean added bitterly, knocking back another sip of beer.  
  
“Yeah,” agreed Sam. “It started a few days ago, and it's been happening little by little. He started eating today-”  
  
“And discovered the wonderful world of food poisoning too, so there's that,” said Dean.  
  
Bobby winced. “Didn't lose his lunch in the backseat of your car, did he?” he asked.  
  
“Do you think he'd be alive if he had?” Dean scoffed.  
  
Bobby rolled his eyes with a sigh. “Well...how's he taking it?”  
  
“Pretty hard,” said Sam. “I mean...I'm guessing this is the worst thing an angel can go through.”  
  
“Doubt it,” grunted Dean, his teeth scraping against the cold glass at the mouth of his beer bottle.  
  
“Think about it, Dean. Fallen angels don't exactly have a good rep, you know?”  
  
“The dude's becoming human. He's not _dying_.”  
  
“Sam's got a point though, you know,” said Bobby. “Whatever's happening to him, it's a punishment for sure. Heavenly punishment, too. Doubt it's pleasant.”  
  
“Okay, all I'm saying is that there are way worse things than being human. It's Earth. It's humanity, and it sucks, for sure, but it's not Hell. I should know, alright?”  
  
The following silence was anything but comfortable.  
  
“Well, if all he's had to put up with is you two and food poisoning,” Bobby said after a moment, “then I'd say things could be going a whole lot worse so far.”

* * *

  
A few days passed, and Castiel started eating again, though he avoided most meat for the moment. Instead he began to emulate Sam's eating habits, practically going vegetarian much to Dean's chagrin. But hey, maybe Bobby was right; things could have easily been going much worse.  
  
Cas still didn't sleep, however, instead wandering around the house in the wee hours of the morning before the sun came up, probably, Dean figured, alternating between praying and moping. Sometimes Dean would wake up and see a shadow slipping past the door in the middle of the night as Cas paced up and down the halls. The angel's footfalls were light – almost cat-like – and nearly inaudible even on the creaky floorboards. It was a bit like having a benevolent ghost occupying the house.  
  
That would stop soon; Dean was always reminded of that when he saw him and noticed the darkening bags under Castiel's eyes. Before too long, Cas would have to succumb to the very human need for sleep. The sadness Dean felt at that surprised him, and he wondered just how long it would take for it to happen.

* * *

  
“Dean?”  
  
Dean paused mid-step in the hallway at the sound of his name, inclining his head toward the bathroom door.  
  
“Cas, you in there?” he called. He didn't approach the door just yet; he really, really hoped he'd misheard because, given the circumstances, Dean honestly did not want to know just what part of humanity Cas was discovering in there. Especially since, from the sound of the angel's voice, it was not going to very smoothly at all.  
  
“Yes.” It was definitely Castiel's gruff, sandpapery voice, but it was not the tone Dean was used to; the angel sounded almost on the verge of frantic. He began to worry, for both Castiel and for his own sanity.  
  
“Well...what's going on?” he asked dubiously. With an angel-slowly-turning-human in the bathroom and calling out for him, sounding like he was just on this side of panicking...There weren't a lot of probable outcomes that were in any way pleasant.  
  
“I, uh...I need your help...”  
  
Dean put his hands on his hips and cleared his throat. “What's the problem, Cas?” He asked tersely.  
  
“I just...I don't know what I did...Something's wrong, Dean-” With every syllable, Castiel's voice seemed to become less and less collected.  
  
“Alright, alright...I'm coming in, okay?” Dean sighed, mentally braced himself for whatever he might find on the other side of the door, and went in.  
  
Castiel was soaking wet – as was most of the rest of the bathroom – and covered by only a towel around his waist as he desperately clung onto the faucet in the bathtub. Or at least, he was clinging onto where the faucet _used_ to be; the piece of piping itself was lying useless on the tile, and there was currently a veritable geyser spilling from the exposed plumbing, staunched only by Castiel's grip.  
  
“Jesus! What did you _do?_ ” Dean exclaimed, staggering backwards.  
  
“I don't know! I was only trying to bathe, and I-”  
  
“Okay, okay! Just stay there, and I'll go shut off the water!” Dean sprinted from the bathroom, hoping to God that he could find the shut-off valve before the house flooded.  
  
If Cas developed an aversion to bathing after this, Dean figured it would be just his luck.

* * *

  
They never did solve the mystery of the upstairs bathroom faucet. Cas claimed he had no idea what had happened – “It's all a bit of a blur...” – and Dean, Sam and Bobby had no clue how the hell Cas could have possibly managed it – “How the hell did you _accidentally rip off_ the shower faucet, ya idjit?” – so they decided amongst themselves, after Dean had repaired the faucet, that they'd have to count it as a riddle they'd never solve.  
  
Dean figured it wasn't anything worth losing sleep over, not that he slept on a regular cycle anyway.  
  
He was sweating, and breathing like a marathon runner at the finish line when he was roused from sleep the following evening by a nightmare that faded almost immediately after he woke up. That was the only good thing about these night terrors: they didn't remain vibrant and fresh in his mind for long. But his heart was racing as if it could remember what his brain couldn't, and it was making him shake, so he got up and went downstairs to get some air and maybe a sandwich from the kitchen.  
  
Sweat was cooling on his brow when the soft glow from the computer screen drew his attention. A British woman drawled on about antelopes as the animals bounded across the savannah on the screen. In front of the laptop, sprawled on the couch in the study without his usual observance of proper posture, Cas watched with apparent disinterest, resting his cheek against his open palm. If Dean didn't know better, he would have said the angel was starting to nod off.  
  
“Sam let you borrow his laptop?” Dean said.  
  
Cas jumped, pausing the program quickly as he looked up. “Yes,” he said. “He said I might find these nature documentaries interesting. I'm sorry, did I wake you?”  
  
“Nah.” Dean sat down on the couch beside Cas, reaching out and clicking play again with a half-hearted flick of his wrist and watching a group of lionesses stalking their prey in the tall grass. “I was up already. What about you? Since when do you watch nature documentaries?” Dean picked up the open DVD case from the arm of the couch, studying it and quirking an eyebrow at the fact that Sam had apparently succeeded in his attempts to teach Cas how to play DVD's on a laptop. That was certainly impressive.  
  
“Sam took them from the library.”  
  
“Right...” The lionesses pounced, racing after the antelope with astounding grace and terrifying ferocity. The group of cats managed to catch one of the smaller ones, wrestling it to the ground and claiming their kill. Dean winced.  
  
“Did you...was it another nightmare?” Cas asked tentatively. Dean crossed his arms.  
  
“I guess,” he said. “Don't remember it really. It happens.”  
  
“I hear you sometimes,” Cas said. “Sometimes you wake up...screaming...”  
  
Dean clenched his jaw. Yes, sometimes the nightmares got bad enough that he'd wake up in some kind of fit. Sam knew, and so did Bobby. There was a solemn sort of agreement between them all that when Dean woke up in the middle of the night, a scream wrenching itself from his throat, it wasn't cause for alarm and it was best to leave it be. The first few times, Sam had barged into the room, of course, because a hunter's conditioned reflexes never took a break even when the hunter did, but now when Dean woke up cold in the darkness, he did so alone. It was better that way; discussing his nightmares about Hell with his brother was not something that Dean found enjoyable in any sense, and it did Sam no good to feel helpless when he couldn't do anything about them, so it was better for all involved if Dean was left to deal with them on his own.  
  
It was how he was used to dealing with his demons anyway. Well, his metaphorical demons at any rate; when it came to the real ones, it was best to have backup.  
  
“Sorry,” Dean said awkwardly. “Look, it's no big deal. Just dreams.”  
  
“I fear that sleep would not be pleasant,” Cas said solemnly. When he turned from him, Dean could see the shadows under Castiel's eyes as well as the visible exhaustion on his face and in his posture. “If your dreams are any indication...”  
  
“Hey, dreams aren't all bad. And neither is sleep. Trust me, sometimes it's the best thing in the world.”  
  
“It seems horribly inefficient, passing out cold for hours at a time like that.”  
  
“Well, you know us humans...Not exactly the most efficient animals. But hey, what can you do?” Cas was slouching again, sleep closing in on him for a few moments before he jerked awake. “You tired?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Because you look pretty tired.”  
  
“I do _not_ require sleep,” Cas snapped, as if sleep was something shameful and wrong and he would not be caught dead indulging in such things.  
  
“Look, you can fight this all you want, Cas, but eventually-”  
  
“I'll fall. I know. I am falling and there's nothing I can do. I don't need you to remind me of that, Dean.” His sudden outburst caught them both off-guard, and Cas slumped again, this time not out of exhaustion, but out of shame. “Apologies...”  
  
“Look, forget about it okay? You're pissed. I get it. I would be too, you know?”  
  
Castiel hazarded a glance over at him, his gaze almost sheepish as he stared at him over his rounded shoulder. “I am...afraid,” he admitted. “Are you ever...afraid?”  
  
“Of course I am. I'm human.”  
  
“I mean...of the dreams. When you go to sleep...are you ever afraid of the nightmares?”  
  
The question gave him pause, and he opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came to him. Sometimes when he lay down to sleep, he felt a fleeting sense of anxiety, like part of him knew what was coming when he drifted off. It was like something was lurking inside his head, waiting for him to dare to close his eyes so that it could take hold: dreams...nightmares...visions of terrors past.  
  
“Sometimes,” was all he said. “But they're just dreams, Cas...You know, they can't hurt you or anything.” He felt almost like he was talking to a small child who had had a bad dream and clambered into his parents' bed for comfort.  
  
“I suppose,” Cas said, and he gazed up at the computer again, now watching a crocodile lurk in the murky water of a river.  
  
Dean took a breath and placed his hands firmly on both knees. “Well hey,” he said, “if you don't want to sleep, fine. Watch your weirdo nature documentaries. I don't mind.”  
  
“Dean...” Cas mused after a few moments of waiting. “Aren't you going to go back to bed?”  
  
“Don't think so,” Dean said. He leaned back and stretched out his legs. “Not really tired. Besides, I'm kind of interested in, ah...whatever this is.” He gestured vaguely at the television, and Cas tentatively turned the volume back up.  
  
“I suppose it is rather interesting.”  
  
That night, Dean learned that a pronghorn antelope could run at 65 miles per hour, that a crocodile could stay submerged for up to two hours at a time, and that nature documentaries put him to sleep faster than warm milk and Ambien.

* * *

  
He woke up just minutes after falling asleep, it seemed, and the first thing he realized before he even opened his eyes was that someone was trying very hard – and failing – to stifle a bought of incessant laughter. When he finally did look up, Sam was hovering over him with his phone, apparently snapping pictures, and Bobby was standing beside him wearing a ludicrously amused smirk.  
  
“Aw...look how cute...” Sam crooned, feigning a swell of emotion as he put his free hand over his heart.  
  
“Downright adorable,” Bobby said. “Save that one for the scrapbook.”  
  
“What the hell are you doing?” Dean grunted, and when he tried to move, he felt something weighing him down, gripping onto his arm, a wet pressure pressing against his shoulder.  
  
He looked over, and there was his answer: Castiel was drooling on his shoulder, the laptop sitting closed on his lap. He rolled his eyes before glaring at Sam and Bobby.  
  
“Don't even,” he said in a hushed tone.  
  
“You should see how sweet you two are,” Sam chuckled.  
  
“Shut your cake hole, Sam,” Dean barked.  
  
“Careful,” said Bobby, dropping his voice to a whisper and gesturing toward Castiel. “Don't want to wake him.”  
  
“Both of you can shove it.”  
  
“Dean...” Beside him, Castiel stirred, and it took just a moment for the angel to register that they were being observed with great amusement. He flushed just the slightest bit, straightening up and trying to press out the wrinkles from his shirt as he put the laptop gingerly on the floor. “I...I believe I must have fallen asleep...” he mumbled, looking over at Dean. “I hadn't even realized. I apologize...Did I inconvenience you?”  
  
“Nah,” Sam chimed. “I got pictures.”  
  
“ _Sam._ ” Dean was up in a flash, and Sam was also, holding the phone just out of Dean's reach as he sprinted into the kitchen.  
  
“So you're sleeping now, huh?” Bobby asked as the cries of the two warring brothers echoed through the halls.  
  
“I suppose...” Cas admitted, gripping the edge of the couch somewhat anxiously.  
  
“Could be worse...Hey, sleep ain't so bad, is it? Better than food poisoning anyway. And at least you won't bust any more faucets in your sleep. Or I hope not at any rate.”  
  
“I don't even remember falling asleep,” Cas said. “It's...unsettling.”  
  
“Least you woke up in the same place,” Bobby offered, half-jokingly. Cas spared a glance over Bobby's shoulder, catching a glimpse of Dean preparing to launch himself at his brother to retrieve the phone.  
  
“More or less,” he said.

* * *

  
As it turned out, sleep was not always pleasant. Dean knew Castiel had discovered that when the rapidly falling angel awoke screaming in the middle of the night. It was a scenario to which he could relate easily, having experienced that very same thing far too many times to count. He could only imagine what cruel things Castiel's mind had conjured up to torture him with; after millennia of being a soldier, a servant to the will of an absent father, after going to Hell and back, it certainly must have had quite the pallet to draw from.  
  
He saw Cas' silhouette against the glow of the moon, his figure sitting hunched over on the couch, breathing hard. Cas reached up to wipe sweat off his brow, and his hand lingered there as he rested his forehead against his palm. Dean could remember doing just that himself, as though he could press the memories and pain out of his skull if he just pushed hard enough...  
  
He debated going to him, but Cas saw him anyway, ever the observant guest, and his voice was shaky and breathy when he spoke: “Dean?”  
  
“Yeah, it's me,” Dean relented, approaching in slow, calculated steps across the creaky floorboards. Cas flinched at the noise, and Dean's chest clenched in empathy. “Nightmare?”  
  
“I think so...” Cas sighed. “I'm finding it difficult to remember...”  
  
“Dreams are funny that way,” Dean said, chuckling humorlessly.  
  
“Your sleep patterns seem very irregular, Dean,” Castiel said after a moment's silence, rubbing the fringe of the old blanket that covered his legs between his fingers thoughtfully. “I doubt it's healthy.”  
  
“You're one to talk, you know. You just got in on this sleeping business a few days ago.” Cas looked down at the floorboards, seeming to concentrate his gaze on Dean's bare feet, tinged blue by the moonlight.  
  
“I'm beginning to regret it,” he said wanly.  
  
“Yeah, well...” Dean sat down on the arm of the couch with a heavy exhale. “Not much you can do about it...”  
  
“I am all too aware, Dean.” Castiel's sorrowful tone irked something deep inside Dean, and he furrowed his brow, suddenly exasperated by it.  
  
He stood. “Alright, you know what? You need to quit all this moping and wallowing in self-pity, Cas.”  
  
“I wasn't-”  
  
“Yeah, you were. Look, it's not your fault. I get it, you're pissed that this is happening to you. Hell, I'm pissed that this is happening to you. But sometimes life is shitty. Sometimes humanity is shitty, but it's a hell of a lot better than a ton of other stuff that's out there. You and I both know it.”  
  
Castiel fell silent, turning his gaze away from Dean and staring off into the darkness. The moonlight streaming in through the window cast all manner of jagged shadows on his rough features, and Dean wondered absently if Cas was going to have to start shaving before too long. Finally, he looked up at Dean, eyes startlingly blue, the only splash of color on a stark backdrop of black and white.  
  
“I understand you might feel...offended that I regard humanity as such a punishment, Dean,” he said. “And I apologize, but for me...Dean, if you could understand, if you experienced what it was like to be an angel for even just a moment...If you could fit just a fraction of that state of being into your mind, and if you were then resigned to a human existence once more...” He sighed, rubbing his temples before letting his hands fall limp at his sides. “It's difficult to explain.”  
  
“Okay, so I don't know what it's like to be an angel,” Dean admitted. “But I know what it's like to be human. And I know what it's like to be a lot of things worse than human...” His chest ached around the words as he spoke. He laughed the feeling off, but it was a bitter sound. “Trust me, Cas, if human is the worst thing you can become, I think you'll do alright.”  
  
Castiel regarded him thoughtfully, taking a moment to absorb what Dean was saying, and just as Dean began to shift uncomfortably under his focused gaze, the angel looked down at his hands, studying the joints  and the creases of his palms as he clenched his fists. The elongated shadows of his fingers stretched out on the floorboards, dancing as he flexed them. Finally, Cas let out a breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.  
  
“I don't think I want to go back to sleep, Dean,” he said, sounding far-off, trying to catch up with his wandering mind.  
  
Dean shrugged as he glanced at the clock. “Yeah well, normally I'd say suck it up and get your rest, but it's almost four...Sun’ll be up soon anyway.” He headed for the kitchen, pretending he couldn't feel Castiel's eyes on him. “I'll make some coffee.”  
  
“I don't like coffee,” Cas said absently.  
  
“Enough late nights and early mornings and you'll learn to.”

* * *

  
“This one here is a 12-gauge shotgun.” Castiel looked down warily at the weapon in Sam's hands as the younger Winchester pulled it out of the trunk of the Impala and held it up to him. The morning air was crisp and cool, and Cas flexed his fingers to warm them before reaching out hesitantly to take the gun, eying Sam as he tried to figure out if he was holding it correctly.  
  
“Yeah, that's right,” Sam said with a nod. He grabbed Castiel's wrist and moved one hand back away from the barrel of the gun, pulling the butt of the weapon up to rest against Cas' shoulder. “You want to hold it firm, but not too tight. It's got a pretty good kick, so you don't want it flying out of your hands when you shoot it.”  
  
“This is unwieldy,” Cas muttered, studying the gun as he very carefully avoided putting his fingers anywhere near the trigger. “I've always found guns to be rather...inelegant.”  
  
“It's not really a question of elegance, you know?” Sam chuckled. “Just about whatever gets the job done.”  
  
“I will have to rely on such things to protect myself in the future,” Cas mused, and Sam's gaze was sympathetic as he assured Cas that learning to use a firearm would not be hard for him.  
  
“It just takes some getting used to,” he said. He pointed at several old wooden boxes stacked out back of the salvage yard. “Try aiming at those there. Rest it up against your shoulder like this, see? Not too high up or you'll get caught with the recoil. Finger on the trigger-”  
  
After taking a deep breath, Cas hoisted the gun up and squeezed the trigger, staggering with the force of the kick as the resulting noise echoed far and wide. Far off, a flock of birds squawked angrily and took to the skies. The boxes remained unmarked.  
  
“I missed,” Cas said, wincing as he pressed a hand to his shoulder, lowering the gun.  
  
“You'll get it,” Sam assured him, carefully taking the gun. “Here, I'll show you how to reload-”  
  
“Do you think I could try something a bit smaller?”  
  
“Smaller?” Sam arched an eyebrow as Cas nodded.  
  
“I find the shotgun cumbersome. Perhaps I would be better suited to something lighter...easier to maneuver. What about this one?” Castiel gestured at a shiny silver handgun resting in the trunk.  
  
“Sure, I guess,” said Sam as he lifted the weapon and checked the ammo. “This is the Taurus. One of Dean's favorites for a while. Standard nine mil, good and sturdy.” He placed the gun in Castiel's hands, and Cas ran his fingers thoughtfully over the mother of pearl grips, as if he were trying to sense the presence of Dean's hands on it from years of use.  
  
“Alright so...you're right-handed, so you want to put your right hand on the grip like this...” He guided Castiel's hand to the correct position, pointedly keeping the firearm aimed away from them toward the scrapyard. “Left hand wraps around the other side for support like this, see? Now keep a tight grip on it, fingers off the trigger...”  
  
At the moment, Cas seemed reluctant to put his fingers anywhere near the trigger at all, so Sam doubted the angel becoming trigger-happy would be a problem.  
  
“Okay, now, feet apart, knees bent, aim at the boxes again, just like before.” Cas raised his arms, pointing the gun with a reassuring measure of confidence at the boxes he'd previously missed. His gaze focused into a laser-like stare, his brow furrowing in concentration. “Safety's off,” Sam warned. “When you're ready...”  
  
Cas took a breath, and squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out across the scrap yard, and the angel stumbled backward with the force of the recoil, less violently than he had with the shotgun. The boxes, once again, were untouched. Cas growled in frustration as he lowered the firearm.  
  
“Aw, why didn't you tell me you were doing some target practice?”  
  
Cas and Sam both turned as Dean hopped down off the back steps, letting the door slam closed behind him. Dean flinched as Cas seemed to forget he had a gun in his hand, and Sam was quick to take the firearm from him.  
  
“Watch where you're aiming, man!” Sam chastised, and Cas winced sheepishly.  
  
“Apologies...”  
  
“Hey, that's rule number one, Cas,” said Dean, taking the gun from Sam, the safety now on. “Always know what you're aiming at. These things could save your life one day, alright? You should know how to use 'em.”  
  
“That's what I was saying,” Sam said.  
  
“Sam was just instructing me on proper firing technique,” added Cas.  
  
“Gun-slinging 101, huh?” Dean asked with a grin. “Well, you wouldn't mind a TA, would you, Sammy?” Dean winked, and Sam shrugged, giving Dean a go-ahead gesture. Dean addressed Cas square on: “Okay, rule number one, everything you aim at is something you want to kill. No ifs, ands or buts. You point the gun at it, you want it dead, understand?”  
  
Cas nodded yes.  
  
“Alright, rule number two, when you hold this thing, it's not just a chunk of metal. It's a part of you. Kind of like an extension to your arm. A little zen when you think about it.” He chuckled, handing the gun to Cas again, and Cas pointedly aimed it away from them, more toward the scrapyard. Seemed he was a quick learner.  
  
“Aim it again, just like Sam showed you, alright?” Cas did, copying his stance from before. Dean reached over and turned the safety off, standing close behind Cas. His arm brushed against Castiel’s jacket, and his breath was hot against the nape of the angel’s neck as he said, “Keep your arms steady, hands firm...Eyes on the prize. Fire on an exhale.” With the word 'exhale,' Cas tensed a bit, and Dean took a purposeful step back, choosing to ignore the way Castiel's pulse seemed to be racing. Holding a gun for the first time could do that to a person.  
  
Cas took a slow breath, let it out through his slightly parted lips, and pressed the trigger. This time, the shot left a pristine bullet hole in the center of the box, and Dean cheered.  
  
“Way to go, man!” he said, patting Cas on the shoulder.  
  
“Looks like you're getting the hang of it,” Sam added with a grin.  
  
“Yeah, we'll make a hunter of you yet,” chuckled Dean.  
  
And suddenly, Cas did something that Dean thought he'd never see: the angel smiled, warm and bright and genuine. It set something glowing in Dean's chest that he couldn't quite identify, and he decided to name it pride.  
  
“You would?” Cas asked hopefully. God if it wasn't refreshing to hear actual hope in his voice for once since all of this had started, even if it was tentative. “You would really welcome me as such?”  
  
“What, did you think we were going to leave you out by the side of the road or something?” Dean scoffed. “You're practically family, Cas.”  
  
The angel's eyes shone with what Dean was relatively certain was gratitude. “Thank you...” Cas said, tone heavy with emotion. As he took a step toward the Winchesters, however, another shot rang out, and Cas let out a pained cry and crumpled.  
  
Dean cursed and crouched down in seconds, pushing the gun away after the accidental discharge. Blood seeped red from Castiel's leg, staining his pants and the ground below him, and it only took a second's recognition for Dean to press his hands over the wound. Cas flinched, but Dean's grip was firm.  
  
“Goddammit, Cas!” he barked, feeling Sam kneel down next to him.  
  
“Shit...He hit an artery?” Sam grunted under Castiel's agonized moans. Dean hazarded a look beneath his palm at the wound; the hole in Castiel's pants was small, and it was difficult to see the injury through the blood, but the flow – while not slow – was controllable. It seemed the bullet had missed anything major, which was certainly a relief.  
  
“Nothing fatal,” Dean replied. “Come on, we have to get him inside...Help me. Cas, we gotta get you up, come on.”  
  
“That was my fault...” Cas said, almost phrasing it like it was a question.  
  
“I told you, rule one, Cas,” Dean reminded him. “Aim to kill.”  
  
“How bad is it?”  
  
“You'll live, but we gotta get you up.” Together, Dean and Sam hoisted the angel up with a grunt of effort, and they slowly made their way to the back door of the house.

* * *

  
“What did you idjits go and do now?” Bobby groaned when he caught sight of them; Dean and Sam were just easing Castiel onto the couch in the library.  
  
“Trying to teach Cas how to fire a gun,” Sam explained as he ran to the kitchen to get water and rags.  
  
“Doesn't look like it went too well,” Bobby said. Even as he spoke, he took it upon himself to get a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet.  
  
“It was going fine until Cas shot himself in the damn leg,” Dean barked, taking out his pocket knife and cutting Castiel's pants at the knee, gingerly pulling the fabric off of his injured right calf.  
  
“Apologies...” Cas ground out, and Dean almost chuckled at that. Here he was, bleeding on the couch from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the leg, and the damn angel was apologizing.  
  
The flow of blood was not overwhelming, but it wasn’t slowing much either. Dean doubted the bullet itself was doing anything to staunch the blood flow, and he got a sinking feeling in his stomach when he knew it had to come out. He wasn't looking forward to having to put Cas through this...  
  
“Gotta get that damn bullet out,” he grunted, tossing away the bloody rags. “Give me that whiskey.” Bobby did, and Dean poured a generous amount over his knife blade before handing the bottle to Cas. “Drink.” Castiel eyed the bottle warily, but Dean shoved it into his shaking hands. “Trust me, Cas, you're going to wish you had if you don't.” Finally, Cas took it and downed a hearty portion of it, wincing at the burn.  
  
“Sam, give me your belt,” Dean said, and Sam did without hesitation. Dean took it and handed Sam the bottle of whiskey in return, folding the belt over and holding it out to Cas. “Bite down. Hard. This is gonna hurt, and I'm sorry, but I gotta get that thing out.”  
  
“I'm beginning to regret this lesson...” Cas said before doing as he was told and biting down on the leather strip.  
  
“Yeah, well, live and learn,” Bobby said. And Dean was just about to advance with the knife – Cas' body tensed at the motion, fists clenching until his knuckles turned white – when he paused.  
  
“Sam,” he barked. “Hold his hand.”  
  
“Hold his-”  
  
“Hold his damn hand, Sam.”  
  
“I don't need-” Castiel tried to force out around the belt, but Sam had already grasped his hand firmly, and Cas wasn't exactly about to push him away.  
  
“There, see?” Dean said. “I'd do it myself, but I'm kind of busy. I'll go as quick as I can, alright? Just tough it out.” He didn't give Cas time to say anything more before digging the knife into the wound, and Castiel's body tensed and seized; he threw his head back against the arm of the sofa, his Adam’s apple quivering with every agonized groan that ripped its way from his throat. Sam visibly winced both in sympathy and in pain from Castiel's immediate iron grip on his hand, but Dean ignored all of these things, focusing instead on the task before him.  
  
“Sorry, sorry,” he said under his breath. “Gotta be careful...don't want to make things any worse.” He leaned his weight on Castiel's leg, holding him steady, keeping him still as he searched for the bullet, and he felt Bobby kneel down beside him, adding his firm grip to help keep Cas’ leg in place. Finally, after what seemed like at least two eternities, Dean's knife struck something metallic, and he maneuvered the blade around it until he could pull the damn thing out with a cry of success. The bullet clattered across the hard wood floor, and Dean pressed his palm to the wound again to staunch the flow of blood.  
  
“Got it, Cas,” Dean said, and the angel seemed to relax a bit, letting the belt fall from his mouth. “Worst part's over.” Cas opened his mouth to speak, but Dean cautioned against it: “Don't try to talk, Cas. Just relax for a minute, okay? And give Sam his hand back, would you?” Cas did, and Sam flexed his fingers, wincing.  
  
“I got some bandages in the bathroom,” Bobby said as he stood. “I'll get ‘em. That wound's probably gonna need cauterizing, though.” Cas looked away, staring instead at Dean's hand over his leg, seeming, for a moment, almost intrigued by the way Dean's fingers pressed stubbornly into his bloody flesh.  
  
“I think...” he said raggedly. “I think I preferred the food poisoning.”  
  
“To shooting yourself in the leg?” Dean asked, actually allowing himself a small smile now. “Yeah, I think I would too.”

* * *

  
Castiel's injury was healing quickly; it seemed like for as little mojo he had left, it was still able to provide some minor benefits, and he was up and walking again – albeit with a pronounced limp – within the day. Dean had to admit he was glad for that, and though Cas had been understandably reluctant to pick up a gun, Dean hoped Cas would bite the bullet (as it were) and start practicing again soon. That way at least he would be doing something productive rather than just sitting around the house moping.  
  
Dean leaned back with a satisfied groan as he threw his napkin on the empty plate in front of him. He picked at his teeth with one fingernail, quietly smirking to himself when Sam grimaced.  
  
“You got any pie?” he asked.  
  
“I can't believe you're still hungry,” Sam chastised.  
  
“Always room for pie, Sammy. Besides, man's got to live on something, doesn't he?”  
  
“Man can't live on pie alone,” Sam said haughtily, trying to hide a smile as he spoke.  
  
“Yeah, but it can't hurt, can it, Confucius?”  
  
“You know if your angel ate half the amount you did, maybe he wouldn't be looking so wiry,” chimed Bobby, and immediately the mood soured. Honestly, Dean had been trying not to think of the way Cas' eyes had seemed sunken lately, the way he barely ate and probably slept even less, the way he was becoming thin and bony as a result.  
  
“He’s not _my_ angel.” Dean barked. “And I can't make the guy eat, alright? It's not my job to feed him mushed peas.”  
  
“No, but...” Sam trailed off, thoughtfully drumming his fingers on the table. “I don't know, maybe you could talk to him?”  
  
“Why does it have to be me?” Dean asked.  
  
“You’re...closer to him than we are,” said Bobby.  
  
Dean scoffed. “We're not freaking married, okay? It's not like just because he pulled me out of the hole, I know exactly what to say to make him feel better.”  
  
“Maybe there isn't anything you can say,” Sam suggested. “Just...”  
  
“Just what, huh? Just sit beside him and let him cry on my shoulder? Give him a great big hug? It's not like anything I say is gonna change the fact that he's falling, so why even bother?”  
  
“Because you're his friend, and he needs-”  
  
“What do you think I've been doing, Sam?” Dean snapped. “This whole time, do you think I've just been sitting on my ass while Cas goes through whatever the fuck it is he's going through? Geez, I've been...I've been trying, you know? But I can't babysit him.”  
  
The three men sat in silence. Dean tapped his foot against the floor, Bobby scratched his beard, and Sam drummed his fingers on the table restlessly.  
  
“Dean might have a point,” Bobby finally said with a relenting exhale. “There's no how-to manual on this kind of stuff. Maybe he needs a little time alone.”  
  
“Exactly,” Dean agreed. “Just give him some time. He'll be fine.”  
  
Sam tilted his head to one side, giving him a look that told Dean that he wasn't about to drop this. Dammit.  
  
“Have you seen him lately, Dean?” he asked. “Bobby's right, he barely eats. I bet he barely sleeps...I mean, I know I'm not the only one who's heard him wake up in the middle night screaming-”  
  
“And how many times have you heard me do that, huh?” Dean challenged angrily. “Plenty of times. And I'm still here, aren't I?”  
  
“It's different, and you know it. Cas is falling. It must feel like death to him, or worse. I mean, how do we know he won't...I don't know, do something drastic?”  
  
“Like what? Off himself? You really think he would do something like that? Come on, this is Cas we're talking about-”  
  
“But it's not Cas! He's losing practically everything he is!”  
  
“Yeah, well I know what that feels like, and I'm still standing here!”  
  
The silence that followed was heavy and uncomfortable. Sam stopped his drumming, instead staring down at his nails and not saying another word. Dean was glad for it. Continuing this conversation was the last thing he wanted to do.  
  
“Last I saw he was out back,” Bobby said solemnly a moment later, nodding toward the door. “Think one of you could get him to get his ass back inside? It's getting cold out there and I don't want to have to deal with a case of pneumonia on top of everything else.”  
  
“I can-” Sam started, standing up, but Dean stopped him.  
  
“I'll get him,” he said roughly, adding with a heavy touch of bitterness, “I do have that whole 'profound bond' thing going for me, after all.”

* * *

  
As Dean stepped out through the back door, the sharp, rhythmic thump of metal hitting wood caught his attention, and he squinted in the dark. Cas' form was a dark shadow moving through the cover of night, lit only by a flashlight resting on the hood of a dilapidated old Toyota next to him. He brought his arm back, then thrust it forward, and a shiny throwing knife flew from his fingers, hitting the side of the wooden crate from his earlier target practice with startling accuracy. He landed throw after throw with almost no effort on his part, it seemed, his stoic expression never so much as twitching.  
  
“Knives?” Dean asked when Cas paused and went to collect the weapons from their target. “Really?”  
  
“I find the guns cumbersome and difficult to handle,” Cas said, studying the knives in his hand after he'd pried them from the wood, running his finger gingerly across the point. “I'm better with these. Find them easier to use. Familiar.”  
  
“Well it's something at least,” Dean said noncommittally. “You're pretty good with those things.”  
  
“I know.” He threw another, and it hit dead center. Dean put his hands in his pockets and shifted in place, rounding his shoulders. It really had gotten chilly out here, and especially considering that Cas was looking ragged from lack of food and sleep, maybe Bobby hadn't been too far off in his worries about pneumonia or something similar.  
  
“How's the leg?”  
  
“It aches.”  
  
“Not surprised. You shot yourself this morning.”  
  
“I know,” Cas said, throwing another knife. “I was there.”  
  
Dean couldn't stop the bark of laughter that issued from his throat. God, that angel could be a snarky bastard when he wanted to be, and Dean would have been lying if he'd said he didn't love that sometimes.  
  
“You got any mojo left at all?” Dean hazarded. “Any you can use to heal yourself, I mean?”  
  
“Very little,” Cas said, pausing to gaze at the light glinting off the blade of his last knife. “I can speed up the healing process some, but the effect is minimal.”  
  
“Well, better than nothing, right?”  
  
Cas grunted noncommittally. “I believe I would have preferred it to be quick,” he said. “Falling all at once, at least, would not give me time to dwell on things that I would prefer not to think about...”  
  
“What, like how you're becoming human?” Dean asked somewhat bitterly.  
  
“Yes, exactly that,” replied Cas, his voice sharp with irritation. “How many times must I explain, Dean, that this is a punishment? The feeling of my Grace ebbing away...it feels like someone plunging a knife into me and carving it out, and it leaves a gaping hole that aches like my leg does now. No amount of whiskey can dull that.”  
  
“Don't start with this again,” Dean groaned with a roll of his eyes. “Look, why is it so bad to be human, Cas? I mean, sure it's pretty damn far from being an angel. It's dirty and complicated, but why is it so damn bad?”  
  
In a sudden blaze of fury, Castiel hurled the last knife with such inhuman force that it went whizzing past the crates and embedded itself in the side of the rusty car behind them, and he whirled around to face Dean, anger white hot in his eyes. “Because I am _damned_ , Dean!” he bellowed. “I've been cast out of the only home I ever knew, out of my family. You treat me like a human, or like an injured dog that can be nursed back to health, but I'm not and I never will be! I'm a soldier, Dean. A soldier of God, and I've been left to die on the outskirts of the Kingdom.”  
  
“Yeah, well you look pretty human to me, Cas,” Dean spat back, his own frustration boiling up within him. Cas stared at him, glaring, and for a moment, Dean thought he might have to brace himself for a blow from the angel's fist. Instead of loosing one, however, Castiel merely huffed, turning from him.  
  
“I'm not,” he said bitterly, and he went to collect his knives again. Well, Dean wasn't about to let Cas start moping again, or start venting his anger in all the wrong places. He strode over toward him, stopping between him and the crates and poking a finger against the middle of Cas' chest.  
  
“Except you are, and you know how I know? Because you're angry. And that...that is very human.”  
  
“Of course I'm angry,” said Cas, like it was the most obvious thing in the world and Dean pointing it out was simply a waste of time that he didn't want to deal with. “Why wouldn't I be?”  
  
“But that's the thing, man. See, anger...okay maybe anger isn't all that human itself. Hell, it's pretty universal when you think about it. But what you do with it, that's what makes you human. I don't know just what you did before to vent, Cas, but you have to decide right here and now what you're gonna do with all that anger.”  
  
“I'm going to stop talking to you,” Cas snapped, and he tried to push past, but Dean stopped him again.  
  
“No you're not, Cas. Listen to me. You should be angry. Angry is good! Those assholes up in heaven chucked you out like yesterday's garbage, and for what? Because you wanted to think for yourself?”  
  
“Because I diverted from the Path,” Cas corrected, clenching his fists.  
  
“Because you weren't a tool! Because you wanted something that God or the Host or what the hell ever didn't _want_ you to want. I mean, I'm human, Cas, and even I can see that's a load of horse shit!”  
  
“What would you have me do?” Castiel's voice was straining with anger, his shoulders almost shaking with all of it pent up inside, and Dean thought maybe he would have to take a punch or two after all.  
  
“Get angry, Cas!” Dean yelled. “Throw a punch! Scream every profanity you know!”  
  
“That won't accomplish anything.”  
  
“Oh really? You sure? And moping around the house or throwing knives at boxes will? If you have to go, don't go quietly, Cas! You know they're watching. Show them you're pissed. Show them that you didn't take any of their shit before and you won't now! Hit me, Cas!”  
  
“Wh-”  
  
Dean grabbed Castiel by the collar and shook him, sensing the power radiating from his body. Even now, even in this weakened state, Dean could tell that Cas was miles stronger than he was. All that power still wrapped up in this frail, scruffy exterior was downright fucking terrifying, but he didn't let up. Cas needed this.  
  
“I said hit me, Cas,” he repeated insistently. “Come on, hit me! Hit m-”  
  
The blow to his jaw sent him reeling backwards, straight to the ground. The world spun even as he hit the gravel, digging his fingers into the dirt to anchor himself. When the ringing in his ears died down and his eyes stopped watering, he looked up. Cas stumbled on his injured leg, sinking to his knees and grabbing his calf with a pained grimace on his face.  
  
Dean sat up, tasting blood from a cut on the inside of his cheek, and he chuckled. Cas gazed at him in confusion.  
  
“I'm...”  
  
“Don't,” Dean said, not making any move to stand. “You've got a serious right hook, dude...” Cas looked down sheepishly.  
  
“I was holding back...” he said. Dean's eyebrows arched in surprise. “If I hadn't, I might have shattered your jaw.”  
  
It hurt Dean to laugh, but that didn't stop him.

* * *

  
They didn't get up. Instead, they sat back against the car, ignoring the cold and wondering if Sam and Bobby had heard their yelling from inside. Dean bet they had, but if so, they hadn't ventured out to check if they were both still alive. That had to say something about what they thought of his and Castiel's relationship, whatever it was. Friendship? Brotherhood? None of the above?  
  
His face was starting to swell, but at least the cold was a bit soothing. Cas massaged his leg, every so often glancing over at Dean with something akin to guilt.  
  
“Normally I'd say don't pull your punches,” Dean mused, “but this time I think I should thank you for it.”  
  
“Apologies,” said Cas.  
  
“Hey, relax. You needed it. I mean, don't get me wrong, I hope you won't take out all your emotional problems on my face. I do use this thing, you know.” A ghost of a smile flashed across Cas' face for just a moment and then vanished, but Dean knew it meant that it was a step in the right direction. “I don't think you'll make such a bad human.”  
  
“I hope you won't take it as an insult if I say I doubt I'm cut out for it.”  
  
“Okay seriously, man, what's the deal with you? It can't be all that bad, can it? I mean, falling, sure...that sucks, and maybe humanity sucks sometimes too, but there are sure worse things.”  
  
“There are.”  
  
“Then what's so bad about being human?”  
  
“I've been alive for millennia, Dean. I've seen humanity through the ages. And across generations, all I see is pain upon misery.” Dean scoffed.  
  
“You must be fun at parties.”  
  
“I mean it, Dean.”  
  
“Well then you’re probably not looking hard enough.”  
  
“What am I missing?” Cas asked, and it was not at all hard to make out that it was a challenge. 'Prove me wrong,' it seemed to say.  
  
“Try free will,” Dean said. “You don't have to be a...a faceless pawn, Cas. I mean tell me one time you've done anything because you wanted to, not because you were told.” Cas opened his mouth to respond, but closed it again a moment later, returning his gaze to the ground.  
  
“I once thought free will was something to be envied,” he said. “I'm not so sure anymore.”  
  
“That's because it's scary as fuck,” Dean said. Cas looked at him questioningly. “Well it is. It's like living on your own for the first time. You know, sometimes it's comforting to have someone telling you what to do. But I don't care how scary it is, I'd still take it over blind faith any day.” He rubbed his face and winced.  
  
“You're awfully certain.”  
  
“That's cause I know what's important to me. And trust me, once you figure that out for yourself, you won't want to give it up for anything.”  
  
Cas still didn't look up at him, running his hand thoughtfully over the denim surface of his jeans. They were Dean's, actually, and they fit far too loosely on his bony hips. “So that's what I should strive for,” he said. “Free will...”  
  
“Geez, do you want a laundry list of perks or something?” Dean asked. “Maybe humanity is shitty sometimes, but its got a lot going for it. Food...good food. You know, that doesn't come out of a microwave or make you sick on the side of a highway. Like a really good steak or warm apple pie. Better than sex. Well, maybe not quite, but it's close. And that's another thing, too.”  
  
“Sex?” Cas asked, avoiding eye contact even as he spoke.  
  
“Come on, Cas, I don't care if you're the world's oldest virgin, you gotta have at least some idea that sex is awesome. Better than awesome. Do angels even have sex?”  
  
“Not in the way humans do. There's no need.” Even as he spoke, Cas shifted uncomfortably.  
  
“Bullshit. There's always a need.” Dean tapped his fingers against the metal of the car's bumper, listening to the metallic sound echoing in the night air. “One of the best perks of humanity right there. One of the most basic animal urges.”  
  
Absently, he wondered if Cas had any of those urges, and the thought made him grimace. It wasn't exactly what he wanted to be thinking about. Then again, if Cas was eating and sleeping now, it only made sense that maybe some kind of libido would make itself known sooner or later. But Dean sure as hell wasn't going to bring it up; he wasn't really in much of a mood to be having “The Talk” with anyone, especially not a millennia-old-angel-turned-human. If it became necessary, he'd plop some skin mags in Cas' lap and tell him to have at it.  
  
“It's a powerful force,” Cas said thoughtfully. “It has caused angels to fall in the past. Willingly, even.”  
  
“What? Sex?”  
  
“No, love.”  
  
Dean paused and blinked. Well if that hadn't just come straight out of left field, Dean didn't know where the hell it had come from. The very mention of it made something stir in him that was at the same time both oddly pleasant and horrendously uncomfortable.  
  
“The two aren't exactly interchangeable, Cas,” he said.  
  
“No, but they are linked. The desire to be close to someone, to feel a connection with them...It's one of the greatest temptations, and perhaps that is why angels fall and humans die in pursuit of it.”  
  
Dean was silent a moment, ceasing his habitual tapping. All this talk of love was making Dean want to bail on the conversation, and he couldn't work out why. Probably because it was so cheesy. Angels giving up their power to wallow around in the filthy world of humanity all for the sake of love? It was like something out of a romance novel.  
  
“Well, if so many angels have taken the bait,” he finally said, “humanity must have something going for it, don't you think?”  
  
Castiel took a long time to respond. “Perhaps.”

* * *

  
Dean was half asleep as he padded down the stairs toward the kitchen, consciously trying to be as quiet as he could despite the fact that his brain was sleep-hazy. It seemed he may have had one too many beers earlier that night before going to bed; his mouth tasted like death and a headache was forming between his temples. A cool glass of water would do wonders, and the water from the tap in the upstairs bathroom was room temperature at best.  
  
He paused halfway down the stairs, suddenly pulled out of semi-consciousness by a sound that he hadn't heard before. It sounded like Cas, but at the same time sounded nothing like him; it was a breathy, almost desperate sound, the kind that was dragged out from the back of the throat without conscious consent. Dean waited in the silence for several moments before making his way down the rest of the stairs, but then he froze in the hallway when it came again: somewhere between a gasp of surprise and a sigh of bliss.  
  
It wasn't anything he'd ever heard from Cas before, but that gruff voice was definitely him; there was no mistaking it.  
  
Dean wasn't trying to spy. Hell, it only took half a brain to figure out what was going on, but something drew him to peek around the corner, and when he did, he let out a breath that he couldn't seem to get back in again. Cas was sprawled out on the couch, thin scratchy blanket strewn across his calves, the moonlight streaming over him. His cock was exposed and hard, thick and flushed in his hand as he stroked it slowly, experimentally. He paused, catching his lip between his teeth as his body tensed; then after a moment, he let out a shaky, carefully controlled breath and began to move his hand again, up and down, almost reverently.  
  
Dean had never wanted to see this. Sure, it was great, he supposed, that Cas had figured out to control his...human urges on his own, but Dean certainly never wanted to be a direct observer. A more rational part of him commanded him to turn away in disgust and try to wipe the images from his mind, but he couldn't. He could only stare, swallowing thickly as Cas ran his thumb over the head of his penis, smearing a bead of pre-come that shimmered in the moonlight across his skin.  
  
With his other hand, Cas reached up to thread his fingers through his mussed up hair, opening his eyes just a crack, blue glinting in the low light, and god if it wasn't the most ludicrously sexual thing Dean had ever seen, the most utterly raw form of pure eroticism he could ever have imagined, he didn't know what was.  
  
Dean stumbled as Cas squeezed his eyes shut tight again, and terror shot through him at the thought that the angel had heard him, but Cas was too far gone already. With one more stroke on his throbbing dick, he let loose a strangled, guttural cry and came all over his own fist.  
  
Dean was barely coherent as he slipped back up the stairs, feeling dirty and ashamed and, above all else, more painfully turned on than he'd ever remembered being before.  
  
He went straight to the upstairs bathroom and locked the door behind him, not bothering to turn on the light. It was pitch black as he stumbled over to the toilet and stroked himself in quick, unrestrained movements of his wrist.  
  
He barely lasted a minute, and in those last few seconds, as he knelt over the toilet bowl, no matter how much he tried to keep it from doing so, his mind wandered to Cas: to the tiny arch of his back as he ran his palm up his cock; to the glazed over look in his eyes as he gazed heavenward, as if staring up at an invisible lover in the dark; to his breath coming in barely controlled, shaky bursts that dissolved into a tiny, desperate groan at the end.  
  
He came harder than he ever had in his life.

* * *

  
Dean woke up with a full-blown headache and an upset stomach, and it took just a few precious seconds for all the memories of the previous night to come flooding back to him. When they did, he dragged his palm across his eyes and groaned. Even now remembering the vision of Castiel reclined on the couch like a fucking fertility god set a deep ache in his groin and he angrily rolled over onto his side, pressing his thighs together to quell it.  
  
There had to be some kind of curse on him, something making him feel like this. Because this wasn't some faceless porno actor that he could forget about; this was _Cas_. This was falling angel Cas; had-gripped-him-tight-and-raised-him-from-Perdition Cas; scruffy, deep-voiced, undeniably masculine Cas who he kept picturing blissed out and moaning. And aside from all that, Dean most certainly did not get off on watching other guys jerk it.  
  
So the throb between his legs was obviously some kind of screw-up on the part of his hormones. Given enough time, it would fade, and maybe he would forget about it if he was really, _really_ lucky.

* * *

  
Autumn had rolled in with a vengeance – that much was obvious; the air had gone from being pleasantly crisp to sending a harsh chill through Dean's flesh as he stepped outside, his breath puffing in a white cloud before his lips. The side of hiis face was still swollen, and he winced as he touched it before rubbing his hands together and shoving them into his pockets. As he leaned on the porch railing he hoped that the cold air would at least help to numb his aching cheek if it couldn't clear his head.  
  
Castiel caught his attention just a moment later, and Dean's eyebrows arched almost to his hairline when he noticed the angel several yards off, facing away from the porch. He was shirtless, his discarded clothes lying in a neat pile on the ground nearby, and he was stretching his arms up toward the rising sun.  
  
The angel dipped into a slow lunge, pressing a palm out forward in front of him, and Dean could see him exhale in the slight relaxation of his bare shoulders. His movements were fluid and smooth, graceful almost to the point of being otherworldly. When Dean thought about it, that actually made a lot of sense.  
  
He debated for a while whether or not to approach him, but the decision was made for him when Cas turned and the two of them locked eyes, Cas pausing in his stretches to tilt his head to one side  
  
“What are you doing?” Dean forced out. No way would he ever let Cas know about any of the terrifyingly powerful feelings that had been set to rampage through his system.  
  
“Tai chi,” Cas replied plainly, and with a breath, he turned, and he picked up where he had left off. “I trust I'm not bothering you.”  
  
“No, you're...” He trailed off. Watching him move was eerily entrancing, like watching a fire flicker in the shadows or waves roll up on the beach. He shook it off. “It's just cold out here, man.”  
  
“The cold helps me to focus.”  
  
“I didn't even know you did Tai chi or...whatever.”  
  
“It's long been a practice that connects the body and spirit,” Castiel explained calmly. “It allows me to feel closer to the presence of the Host, even though it's getting...more difficult to sense.” The note of melancholy in Cas' voice was unmistakable, but he moved and breathed smoothly through it, never breaking his flow. “Besides, while you might find it best to channel your anger into fist fights and beer, I think this may be a healthier outlet.”  
  
“Hey, don’t diss the brawl and booze,” Dean chastised amicably before shrugging his shoulders.. “Well...whatever helps, I guess.”  
  
He wasn't used to seeing Cas so...tranquil, especially after their fistfight the previous night (if you could call it that). Sometimes he would space out, going into a sort of trance that made him seem unreachable by any earthly means (though a firm shake on the shoulder usually did the trick), but this was different. He was relaxed and at peace, as if something had finally clicked in that head of his and he'd somehow reached a kind of acceptance of what was going on.  
  
“Is something wrong?” Cas asked after a moment's silence, and Dean realized that he'd been staring.  
  
“No, I just...I'm not used to seeing you so...zen.”  
  
“Such composure tends to be one of the many goals of Tai chi, Dean,” said Cas. His eyes had slipped closed, creating the illusion that his body was moving entirely on its own now. It was oddly fascinating.  
  
After a moment of silence, just as Dean was getting ready to leave, Cas stopped, letting his arms fall to his sides and turning toward Dean as he opened his eyes.  
  
“I've been thinking about what you said,” he admitted. “You were right. I was feeling sorry for myself...But I'm beginning to think, Dean...Perhaps I-” He stopped, looking pointedly down at his hands again, once more studying them like they were the most incredible things in the world. “Perhaps human life might not be so horrible. After all, you're surely an example of the good human beings can accomplish. You, Sam, and Bobby, course...”  
  
Dean was taken aback at Castiel's words, and he chuckled bitterly before he could stop himself. “There are way better examples of humanity than me, Cas.”  
  
“I have yet to find it.”  
  
This was too much, and for the life of him, Dean couldn't figure out where it was coming from. It had to be some kind of weird dream, a cruel trick of his subconscious in the wake of a hormonal Chernobyl. He couldn't come up with a single damn thing to say, or even figure out what the hell he was supposed to feel about what Cas was telling him. Part of him probably would have been flattered if that feeling wasn't already tamped down flat by self-loathing; another part of him was worried that Cas was basing his humanity on such a fucked up template; yet another part felt uncomfortably exposed under Castiel's gaze, like the angel could see all of this going on inside his head, like all his thoughts and feelings – some of them less than innocent, if he was being perfectly honest – were laid out before him. All of it whirled around in his brain and made him horrifically unbalanced.  
  
So he laughed it off, because that was what he'd always done and he was in no condition to stop now.  
  
“Well if that's how you feel, fine. Whatever helps you get through the day.”  
  
Cas shifted, his previous relaxed stature becoming infused with tension again as he scratched the back of his neck; it was a habit that Cas had picked up from him, Dean noticed, and he wondered how he was supposed to feel about that. Cas straightened his shoulders, looking right at Dean with his gaze filled with determined purpose, and for a moment, Dean saw him: Old Cas, the angel, the soldier. The familiarity of it was both welcome and disconcerting.  
  
“I suppose I should thank you,” Cas said.  
  
“For what?”  
  
“Your hospitality...your patience. I know I'm a burden.”  
  
“You're not a burden, Cas,” Dean pressed. “It's what family does for each other. I mean, come on, you didn't think I was just going to take you out and shoot you behind the garage like a sick dog, did you?”  
  
Cas looked down. Apparently the thought had occurred to him. Dean supposed that being abandoned by all of his brothers and sisters whom he'd had around him for millennia could make him wary of relying on others.  
  
Dean scoffed. “Give me some credit, alright? Even I'm not _that_ much of an asshole.”  
  
He reached out and put a hand on Castiel's shoulder, a gesture that should have felt natural and relaxed, but the skin-on-skin contact sent chills down Dean's spine, and he pulled away after just a few seconds, hoping Cas wouldn't think anything of it. “Look, I know how it feels to lose family, you know?” he said, trying to distract from his sudden movement. “Maybe not in the same way, but...yeah, it's hard. I get it.”  
  
Not even close to the same way, Dean thought bitterly. He'd lost people he cared about, people he loved. He'd seen his brother die as well as his father, and memories of the night their mother had been killed still haunted him. But how could that compare to being cut off from the Host of Heaven? From being cast down from a home of millions of years like it was nothing, like he was worthless?  
  
Cas nodded sadly. “You are right, though,” he admitted. “There are worse things.” An expression that seemed to hold the potential to one day become a smile graced Castiel's features, and he looked up at Dean almost expectantly. “I suppose I may one day make a passable hunter. If you'll still have me.”  
  
An arrogant little voice in the back of his head piped up that Cas sounded an awful lot like he was flirting, and Dean crammed it into a dark box and shoved it away with extreme prejudice. Because come on, _really?_  
  
Dean wasn't really sure when it happened, but it was somewhere between him saying “We'll get you there,” to Cas and making it back to the porch that he realized he kind of liked the human Cas was turning into. Well, was he not supposed to? After all, Cas was his friend. But there was something different seated in that feeling of friendship, something that ached deep inside of him. It was like a throbbing pulse of sexual arousal, except instead of being rooted in his flesh, it made its home somewhere else, somewhere he couldn't pinpoint.  
  
He named it before he could stop himself, and immediately pretended he never had, because come on, arrogant little asshole voice... _really?_

* * *

  
Somehow, Dean rationalized the pounding of this heat behind his ribs into some kind of unreasonable anger, so by the time he stepped into the kitchen he was fuming. What right did Cas have to say those things? Making him out to be some kind of shining example of humanity, the guide by which Cas should live his life? What kind of a sick joke was that? Cas knew better than anyone just how goddamn far from perfect Dean was, and he didn't have any right to spew that bullshit; if he thought he did, then he was an idiot.  
  
And what was up with his own damn feelings lately, anyway? Making him act like he was a fucking schoolgirl with a crush...It was downright ridiculous. He didn't have a damn crush on anyone, especially not Cas; he didn't get crushes – he wasn't twelve anymore.  
  
All of this...it was stress. That was all it was. God knew Cas had been wound up tighter than anything lately. He had to be pulling some kind of subconscious psychic angel crap, like an accidental mind-meld that radiated that tension out to anyone near him. It was stress bringing on some kind of mental lapse that was making him feel this way, and it would pass. It would pass, and he would be able to forget this whole thing.  
  
Cas would get the hang of the guns eventually. He was a quick learner, after all, and before too long they'd get him in the right shape to go hunting with them. All that angel knowledge was sure to come in handy even if he wasn't technically an angel anymore, and it would definitely make the research a lot easier. Maybe they'd be able to cut back on the number of hours they'd have to haul themselves up in the library and get things done quicker. And an extra pair of hands was sure to make for easier hunts, even if all they needed was someone to hold the flashlight.  
  
They'd make it work, and they'd be a functioning team, a well-oiled machine. It wouldn't take too long, and once Cas was completely adjusted this would all pass. He wouldn't be dealing with this goddamn emotional shitstorm forever.  
  
Somehow all the rationalizing did little good, and by the time he leaned against the kitchen counter, he was practically seething with frustration and anger, and with nobody to direct it onto except himself, he clenched his fists so hard his knuckles turned white and berated himself for being such an idiotic jackass.  
  
“Seen Cas?”  
  
Dean's fingers curled in response to his brother's voice behind him, and he tried to sound at least halfway in control of himself before he straightened up and reached out to get a glass from the cabinet. See, Sammy? Nothing wrong. Just getting some water. Some really fucking emotionally exhausting water...  
  
“He's outside,” he said curtly. “Doing some kind of yoga or something.”  
  
“Cas does yoga?” Sam asked with a half chuckle.  
  
“I don't know, it's some sort of weird spiritual thing. Ask him.”  
  
Sam was silent for several beats, and Dean knew it was because he was busy worrying. Dammit.  
  
“You alright?”  
  
“Fine. Where's Bobby?”  
  
“Supply run. We ran out of beer, thanks to a certain somebody. How's your face?” No changing the subject, then, huh? Fair enough.  
  
“Just as beautiful as ever,” Dean quipped.  
  
“Swelling's gone down a little bit at least,” Sam offered, and Dean finally turned, water splashing onto the floor.  
  
“Okay, what do you want, Sam?” he barked.  
  
“I want you to talk to me. I heard you fighting with Cas last night. Sounded pretty heated, too. What the hell is going on, anyway?”  
  
“Uh, let's see...Cas got his ass kicked out of heaven and took it out on my face. Nothing new.”  
  
Sam glared at him. “So you go outside to talk to him, and you get into a fist fight.”  
  
“Call it therapeutic,” Dean said. “He needed to vent.”  
  
“He needs somebody to lean on, Dean. Not a punching bag.”  
  
“And how do you know exactly what Cas needs, huh? You some kind of fallen angel expert? They got books on that now?”  
  
“No, and that's the problem. We don't know how to deal with this, but we have to.”  
  
“You say _we_ , but you seem to think I'm some kind of angel whisperer that can solve all of his problems.”  
  
“Like it or not, you're closer to him than either me or Bobby.” He held up his hands. “Look, I don't know what goes on between you and Cas, alright? But he needs somebody around who he feels a connection with, and right now, that's you.”  
  
“He's not my boyfriend, Sam,” Dean spat.  
  
“No, but you apparently feel the need to punish yourself for this anyway.”  
  
Dean scoffed loudly, slamming the glass down on the counter and not caring that its contents sloshed over his hand. “What the hell are you talking about?”  
  
“You don't just let someone give you a bruise like that. I mean, hell, if I punched you, you'd give me another one right back!”  
  
“This isn't just anyone we're talking about. This is Cas.”  
  
“Okay, so he needed to vent. And the first thing you went for was letting him punch you in the face? Why would you egg him on if you didn't think you deserved it or something? He's still an angel for now, Dean. He could have killed you!”  
  
“What are you, my babysitter? I don't think I deserve this, okay? Cas needed to hit something, so I let him hit me. Nothing else to it. You ever seen Fight Club?”  
  
“The main character was psychotic, and they killed a guy!”  
  
“Good, you have seen it. Then you know rule number one. Don't talk about it.” He pushed past his brother, and he could practically hear Sam roll his eyes as he did.

* * *

  
Sam's heavy footsteps crunched on the gravel, stopping by the Impala. He stood silently, not saying a word, waiting, it seemed, for Dean to acknowledge him of his own accord instead. But Dean was in no mood to do that; he was perfectly content under the hood of the car, checking on the fuel lines with loving contentiousness.  
  
“Dean?” It wasn't until his brother addressed him directly that Dean finally did let out a sigh and straightened up, looking over with a quirked eyebrow. Sam forced a smile. “You always work on the car when you're upset,” he said. “I bet there's not even anything wrong with it.”  
  
“I bet I can find something,” Dean said, unable to keep a note of bitterness from his voice. “What do you want?”  
  
“Look, I know you care about Cas, okay?” Dean rolled his eyes pointedly, but Sam continued undeterred. “I care about him, too. He's our friend, you know? And I get you're freaking out about this. We all are. But you can't...beat yourself up about this.” Dean wiped his oily hands off on an old rag and tossed it over his shoulder.  
  
“Why do you think I blame myself for this anyway? It's not like I grabbed Cas and pulled him out of heaven.”  
  
“You blame yourself for everything, Dean,” Sam said, all frustration draining out of his gaze to be replaced with deep sadness, and Dean felt himself deflate a bit at that as well.  
  
“Not everything,” he said, his voice rough and unconvincing.  
  
Sam shifted in place uncomfortably, and Dean could practically see the cogs turning in that head of his as he plotted out his next point.  
  
“We're all worried about Cas, dude,” he said. “I mean, we don't know what this is doing to him, really. And it's not like he opens up about his feelings much.”  
  
That point resonated with Dean when he realized that it was true. Cas spent most of his time, as far as they knew, around asshole angels or emotionally crippled humans. And yet despite that, he had somehow opened up to Dean more in the past few days than anyone ever could have expected. It struck him right then just how much Cas had shared with him, and suddenly he was bowled over with the sheer amount of trust it must have taken.  
  
He wondered where the hell Cas had learned to talk about his feelings, because it certainly hadn’t been from the Winchesters.  
  
“I just want to make sure you're okay,” Sam continued, sighing as if he realized that there was no way to phrase it that wouldn't sound downright cheesy. He waited for Dean to roll his eyes at him, but Dean didn't.  
  
“I'm fine,” he said gruffly. It was a lie. He turned to look through the tool box for a socket wrench.  
  
“But you'd tell me if you weren't, right?” Sam hazarded, already sounding like he knew the answer.  
  
Dean didn't look up as he said, “Course I would.”  
  
That made two lies in the span of a minute. And God only knew how many over the course of the week. If he kept this up, he didn't know where he'd be by the time this whole thing was over.

* * *

  
Dean found Cas sitting on the hood of the Impala, staring up at the stars. It was so reminiscent of the position that he and Sam had adopted countless times in the past, gazing up at the sky, feeling like they might fall in if they didn't have the car and each other to anchor them down.  
  
Maybe part of him wanted to rip the guy a new one for going near the car when his track record with anything vaguely mechanical wasn't the best, but the look in Castiel's eyes stopped him. Yeah, it sounded stupid even as Dean realized it, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something there had changed.  
  
It wasn't quite hopelessness that Dean saw there; it was mourning. An expression only worn by someone who has lost something precious and irreplaceable.  
  
Oh.  
  
“Cas?”  
  
Castiel barely seemed to register Dean's voice; he continued staring up at the deep navy sky.  
  
“It's so quiet,” he murmured after a moment, so softly that he may as well have been talking to himself. Hell, maybe he was. Maybe he was too lost in himself to realize that Dean was even there at all, but that didn't mean staying would do any harm, would it?  
  
“Pretty secluded here,” Dean said. “Not much noise. I kind of like it.” But of course, he knew that wasn't what Cas meant. Cas did not speak or move, simply staring unblinkingly up at the sky. His breath puffed in the cold air before his lips.  
  
“I can't hear it,” he finally said, barely in a whisper.  
  
“Hear what?”  
  
“The Song.” He turned his head, as if searching for something in the endless expanse of stars; his face fell when he didn't find it. “The Host...my brothers and sisters. I can't hear them.”  
  
Dean had already figured as much, but hearing the longing in Castiel's voice made it all the more painfully final. His wings had been clipped for good.  
  
Cas drew in a shaking breath. “I thought I would be ready,” he said. “It's been slipping away little by little, getting quieter every day...I thought it wouldn't be so bad when it was finally gone, but it's...it's so _quiet_ , Dean.”  
  
Finally, Cas turned toward him, eyes wide and searching in the dark. Dean shifted uncomfortably. How was he supposed to provide any sense of comfort in a time like this? How could he? There was nothing he could say or do that would make it alright. But there rarely was in life, so he was used to that feeling.  
  
So he didn't say anything. Instead, he sat down on the hood of the Impala next to the ex-angel and put a hand on Cas' arm. Cas looked down at the hand curiously as Dean looked up to the stars himself. It was a clear, cool night; there was not a cloud in the sky.  
  
Neither of them said a word.  
  
Okay, so maybe Dean's heart was beating a bit more quickly than usual (he would have said fluttering, but he nixed the word before it got halfway across his mind; Dean Winchester's heart did not _flutter_ ) and maybe the pads of his fingers where he touched Cas' arm felt warmer than they should have in this cold night air, but he wasn't thinking about that. Now wasn't the time to think about whatever freaky mental imbalance he was having or why it was Cas who seemed to be triggering it. It wasn't the time to worry about the words and feelings that cropped up in his head when he was nearby, when he saw him, when he touched him. Those things could wait. Dean could put them off. He had to put them off.  
  
“You'll be alright,” he said. “You know...eventually.”  
  
“I feel...very alone,” Cas admitted, staring down at his hands.  
  
“Well, it's a good thing you got me then,” Dean chuckled, and he cut himself off the moment he heard the words slip out. “Me and Sam. And Bobby.” There. He couldn't for the life of him figure out why he hadn't said that to begin with. Cas said nothing about it or about anything else. Instead, he closed his eyes and took a breath.  
  
“They used to say...my brothers, I mean, or a few of them anyway...They used to say that humanity had a song just as the angels did. I have been trying, but I can't seem to hear it.”  
  
“Humanity has a song, huh?” Dean asked. “Well I don't think I've ever heard it either. Any idea what it's supposed to sound like? Can you hum a few bars?” Cas shook his head.  
  
“I don't know,” he admitted. “I can't hear any song. The closest I can think of is...not a song, but a feeling. Many feelings. Emotions I've never felt before. Little by little, I could feel them seeping in as the song of my brothers faded, but now...It's so much. It makes my chest ache.”  
  
“Makes sense you'd be feeling overwhelmed, I guess,” mused Dean. He had never been good at the emotional talk; he avoided it whenever he could, but there was no running away or hiding from it right now. He laced his fingers together in his lap and hunched over, rounding his shoulders, feeling Castiel's eyes on him.  
  
“It's strange,” Cas continued, and Dean wondered if he was even talking to him anymore or just talking to himself, trying to get his thoughts out in the open. “I feel overwhelmed, but it's not unpleasant. It aches, but it doesn't feel the same as pain. It's almost as if something else is slowly filling up the place left by the Host, where my Grace used to be. Or trying to, at least. I can't...I don't think I can put it into words.”  
  
Dean looked over at him curiously, lazily cocking one eyebrow. Cas was staring at him alright, so intently that it made him want to squirm.  
  
Cas spoke again: “I feel like I want something, but I don't know what...”  
  
“Everyone feels like that sometimes,” Dean said, shrugging awkwardly, and suddenly Castiel was kissing him.  
  
It was messy and clumsy and completely out of nowhere, but Cas was grabbing Dean by the lapels – just _grabbing him by the freaking jacket_ like he was the most desperate man in the world – and pulling him over and kissing him hard on the mouth. And Dean just froze, totally lost as to what the hell he was supposed to do because _Cas_ was _kissing_ him, and he realized with what felt like a punch to the gut that it wasn't all that bad. It was all stubble and scruff and harsh, desperate tugs and it was perfect. God, it was _perfect_ , like he'd wanted it forever and had never realized it until now.  
  
Cas' brow was furrowed when he pulled away, as if he was trying to absorb the overflow of sensation that had just assaulted his mind and body, and his expression became one of confusion – like he had no idea how or why the hell he'd just done that – and then finally fear. He pushed away, leaving Dean reeling and frozen in shock, standing up from the hood of the Impala.  
  
“Apologies,” he rasped, not daring to make eye contact. He stared at the ground, gaze darting back and forth as he took a few staggering steps toward the house.  
  
Dean brought a hand to his mouth for a moment before standing up himself, because dammit, nothing – neither pride nor shame nor fear nor uncertainty – was going to change the fact that he would have been lying if he'd said he didn't want more of whatever that was.  
  
“Cas,” he barked, and Castiel paused, still facing away from him, his shoulders slumped and stance resigned as if he was awaiting some kind of divine punishment. “That...was horrible.”  
  
“I know,” Cas said morosely. “I know...I don't know why I did it, Dean. I'm sorry...I should-”  
  
“No, Cas.” Dean stepped toward him, grabbing him by the shoulder and forcibly turning him so that he could look him in the eye. Damn, Cas seemed as flustered as a clueless teenager. “I mean that was a horrible kiss.” He chuckled, though the sound was still tinged with frustration – not with Cas, really, but with himself for being so goddamn thick that it took him this long to figure out what was going on. “Guess you haven't had much practice, anyway.”  
  
Cas was rooted to the spot, practically standing at military attention as Dean reached for him, his fingers curling around Cas’ shoulders so his thumbs could brush against the fallen angel’s collarbone – in the space of a fleeting moment, he realized with a twinge of sorrow how much weight Cas had lost during this whole ordeal. They stood there, facing each other for a moment that seemed to drag on forever, Dean stubborn and Cas wanting, until Dean rolled his eyes and pressed forward.  
  
It took Cas a minute, like he was still processing everything or maybe he wasn't certain that this was wholly real yet. He moved his lips experimentally against Dean's, not a gesture of passion, but more like he was testing the sensation, trying to work out whether or not he had some kind of bad connection, like he couldn't give himself over to it until he knew for sure that it wouldn't vanish at a moment's notice. Dean wished he couldn't understand that feeling, but he could; he knew it all too agonizingly well.  
  
And finally – God, _finally_ – Cas realized that this wasn't a cosmic prank, that this was deliciously real, and he reached up to grasp Dean's jacket again, as if Dean was the only anchor keeping him solidly on the ground, as if he would fall all over again and further than before if he let go for even a moment. He pressed against Dean, eagerly, hungrily, pushing with surprising strength until Dean's back was plastered against the cool metal of the Impala. Dean gripped at Cas' shoulders, at his neck, drank him in greedily and sucked on his bottom lip.  
  
Castiel's hands pressed with an audible slap against the glass of the passenger side window, pinning Dean there, not seeming like he would be willing to let him go anytime soon, and Dean couldn't really complain about that. His head was swimming, not leaving time for any thoughts that might make this feel wrong or weird or shameful. He couldn't think, and he was glad for that; he took advantage of it, letting his logical brain shut down while he focused on what Cas felt like, hard and flat under his palm. He tasted like grass and spice and water drunk from the hose in the middle of summer, metallic and refreshing.  
  
Dean wasn't entirely sure who pulled away first, but when they parted, Cas was breathing in quick, shaky gasps and his lips were red and swollen; Dean wondered if he looked similar and bet that he probably did.  
  
“I want...” Cas breathed, trailing off, still not letting go of Dean's jacket, still pressing him hard against the side of the car.  
  
“What?” Dean implored. “What do you want, Cas?” Geez, he sounded so damn broken, his voice raspy and rough, a lot like Castiel's was most of the time. He already knew what Cas meant – he couldn't pretend that he didn't know – and as much as it threw him for a loop, he was pretty sure he wanted the same thing. God, did he ever want it. There was no point in trying not to want it. He grabbed on to Cas’ arm and felt the touch begin to anchor him, much the same way Cas must have felt clinging to Deal’s jacket.  
  
“I don't know,” Cas said, looking down, making a half-hearted attempt to pull away.  
  
“Yeah, you do,” insisted Dean.  
  
“I shouldn't...”  
  
Dean let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, well neither should I, you know?” His tone was only half-joking. He was all too aware of just how wrong this should have been. Everything about it was just one big _shouldn't_. But when had that ever stopped him? He was Dean Winchester, dammit, and shouldn't was just a word.  
  
Cas looked up at him intently and cocked his head to one side, another glimpse at the angel that had once resided in those bones. “Angels are cast out for things such as this, Dean.”  
  
“Little late for that, don't you think?” Maybe it was harsh, but there was no point in sugar coating things.  
  
Desire stirred in Cas' eyes, pulling him forward just as Dean felt a tug in his chest in the same way, but while Dean gave into it, Cas resisted it. Dean hovered just an inch or so away from Castiel's lips as he repeated his question, rough and barely audible: “What do you want, Cas?”  
  
Cas stared, unmoving, for so long that Dean thought he'd spaced out completely. But then Cas finally pushed forward, pressing his lips to Dean's again with a pleasantly surprising amount of insistence. Dean didn't hesitate this time, grabbing onto Castiel for all he was worth and pushing his tongue past Cas' teeth.  
  
The metal body of the Impala was cold under his back, Castiel's flesh burning against his chest, and his mind reeled hopelessly, leaving his body to act on its own accord. His hand reached blindly out to his side; for what, he wasn't sure until his fingers found the door handle and he somehow forced it open. Within moments, they'd tumbled inside, Dean plastered against the leather backseat by Cas' weight as Cas stared down at him with blue eyes hazed over with the same arousal that pressed hot and insistent against Dean's thigh. Momentary surprise flitted across Castiel's features as they suddenly found themselves horizontal, but it was only for a fleeting second, and then he was back to wanting, desperate and hungry.  
  
“So human...” Cas forced out, and Dean hauled himself up out of the fog of lust to ask him blearily what the hell he was talking about. “You,” Cas replied, gazed trained on Dean now with laser-like intensity. “You're so human...”  
  
“Yeah, well I hope so,” Dean grunted. Cas shook his head.  
  
“No, but you don't understand...you feel like humanity. Taste like humanity.”  
  
“You sound high.”  
  
“I don't expect you to understand what I'm talking about.”  
  
Despite himself, Dean grinned. “Maybe I would if you made any damn sense.”  
  
“You don't make any sense.”  
  
“What a comeback.”  
  
“I mean it. You don't...humans don't...This body doesn't. All of these sensations are so...illogical. None of it makes any sense.”  
  
“That’s what it feels like to be human, Cas. It's not supposed to make sense.”  
  
That seemed to quiet Cas, and Dean arched his back, pressing their mouths together again, and at the same time, Dean reached downward, grasping at Castiel's growing erection through a layer of denim and squeezing until Cas let out a surprised gasp. Dean smirked, leaning. “Now that,” he breathed, “That makes sense, doesn't it?”  
  
The look that Castiel gave him was positively, chillingly feral, and Cas powered forward again, licking deliciously at the roof of Dean's mouth and forcing a shaky groan from his throat.  
  
Now it was Cas' turn to let his hands wander, and his palm pressed against Dean's cock through his jeans. Dean pushed his hips up, into the touch, craving more of it, and a ragged breath tumbled from between his lips, along with some mumbled profanities. God, they were like horny teenagers, groping each other in the back seat of the car, but he didn't have the mental capacity to care.  
  
Cas pulled back, eyeing Dean warily, a question on his lips that he didn't seem to know how to ask aloud. “Can I...” he trailed off awkwardly, glancing downward toward Dean's groin. Dean wasn't sure what he was trying to ask, but he was wound too tight to care or think of denying him.  
  
“Whatever it is, Cas, yes,” he said breathlessly, nodding his head with lustful enthusiasm.  
  
Castiel's hands fumbled with Dean's zipper for a moment, his nose brushing against his chest as he made his way downward. Somehow, Dean connected the dots in his brain, and his breath hitched in his throat. He sat up, leaning against the closed door of the Impala, his breath catching in his throat as he watched Cas finally manage to undo the zipper with almost religious reverence.  
  
“Are you-” The rest of his question was lost in a throaty groan as Cas wrapped his hand around Dean's cock. Dean was lost, done, game over; the feeling of Castiel's rough palm on his dick was almost enough to make him lose it then and there like a thirteen year old virgin. Cas' breath was hot on the head of his penis, and he found himself forcing out the words, “Cas...wait...” even though, god, he really didn't want him to stop.  
  
Cas looked up at him, eyes sparking with curiosity, and Dean took a breath to steady himself despite the fact that Cas' hand was still pressed lazily against his erection. “Need...in the glove compartment...condom.”  
  
Cas quirked an eyebrow. “I doubt there's a risk of pregnancy, Dean,” he quipped.  
  
“Ha _ha_ ,” Dean rasped sarcastically. “Time and place, Cas. Just want to be careful, you know?”  
  
“Do you have some kind of venereal disease?”  
  
“Look, I don't know, okay? Don't think so, but you're human now, Cas...” He managed to smirk. “Gotta play it a little safer from now on.” Sadness flashed across Cas' features, and he visibly deflated, his shoulders rounding.  
  
“I suppose you're right,” he said, glancing downward. Dean's hand stroked against Cas' hip as he sat up, and Cas visibly shivered. Odd, Dean thought, that right now, in the middle of all this, such a comparatively innocent touch could cause a tremor to run down not only Cas’ spine, but also his own. Cas leaned into the touch for a moment, his expression one of...well, Dean would have to call it bliss.  
  
“I'll get it,” Dean said, but Cas didn't seem to hear him. “Cas.” The fallen angel snapped back to reality, reluctantly leaning away from Dean and letting him up. With some tricky maneuvering, he managed to squeeze himself through the gap in between the two front seats, reaching for the glove compartment and spilling half its contents onto the floor with a couple of muttered curses as he searched through it with shaking hands. Finally, he found what he was looking for, pushing himself back into the rear seat to find Cas waiting patiently. Dean almost chuckled at the image: if not for the flush in his cheeks and the rather obvious hard-on that was poking against his half-fastened zipper, nobody ever would have suspected a thing of him.  
  
But the moment Dean sat back against the seat, that all changed, and Cas grabbed onto him possessively, pushing him against the car door and planting sloppy, hurried kisses against his lips and jaw. Dean had never felt so...wanted before. It felt good. It felt spectacular, and not only because of the friction of Cas' polyester-clad stomach against his dick. He pressed his palm to Cas' shoulder, not sure if he wanted to push him away or hold him closer.  
  
Finally, Dean had to prompt Cas to pull back, and Cas watched in rapt attention as Dean ripped open the package and covered himself. Just a moment later, Cas' hand was wrapped around his erection again, and Dean let out a quiet moan as he stroked him in jerky, inexperienced movements.  
  
“You feel so human...” Cas mused again in what seemed like wonder.  
  
“I hope so,” Dean said with a breathy chuckle. “I'd be worried if I felt like something else down there.” Cas didn't laugh, which wasn't really all that surprising, but removed his hand and made his way downward, eyes roving over every bit of Dean's torso on the way.  
  
Dean was about to say something, but whatever it was died and evaporated in his mind, never to be spoken, and all that came out was a rough gasp as Cas tentatively wrapped his chapped lips around the head of Dean's penis, his tongue darting out to take an experimental taste of latex as he hummed thoughtfully. Dean sighed, bringing his hand up to Cas' shoulder, not holding or guiding him, but just giving in to the urge to touch him somehow, like he craved another point of connection between them.  
  
Cas' movements were messy and arrhythmic, but Dean could hardly expect anything different; after all, he doubted Cas had given many blow jobs in his life. But even so, the sight of it, of having Castiel's mouth wrapped around him like that was so ludicrously erotic, touching on some exposed nerve in Dean's mind that he hadn't even known existed – or hadn't wanted to acknowledge – until recently. Plus, this wasn't just anybody; this was _Cas_ , and that alone sent a static charge through his body. At one time that current running through him would have been only a raw feeling of _wrong_ , but now...now it was addictive. He swallowed thickly as Cas took more of him into his mouth, and almost chuckled when the fallen angel faltered and gagged.  
  
“Nobody's asking you to deepthroat anything, Cas,” Dean rasped, hands rhythmically clenching and relaxing against the leather seat. Cas seemed relieved about that, removing his mouth from Dean for a moment and gently running his hand up and down the shaft as he planted kisses against Dean's hip. “What are you doing?”  
  
“You taste...different,” Cas said, almost slurring his words. “Good.”  
  
Maybe some other time, Dean would have laughed at that, because considering the fact that he hadn't showered in a couple days and he was sweating from the heat building up in the car, fogging up the windows, he doubted he tasted anywhere near good, but he was too busy being driven up a wall to care. Dean didn't want to dissuade him, but geez...his cock was straining and he was pretty sure his balls were turning at least five shades of blue. Luckily, Cas didn't seem to feel like dawdling for long, and just as Dean thought he was about to lose it completely, he brought his mouth back to where it was really needed again. Dean let out an appreciative groan, unable to resist the urge to run his fingers through Cas' hair. Cas took him off-guard, bringing a hand up to grasp his wrist while he swirled his tongue across the underside of Dean's penis with renewed fervor.  
  
A spasm rattled its way up his spine, and he lurched forward, curling his body around Cas, both hands buried in his dark hair by now, his eyes squeezed shut. God, all sexual stamina was out the window, it seemed; he must have been more on-edge than he'd realized, and this was all too much, too good, too raw. Cas dipped down lower again, this time managing not to gag, and as the hot wetness of his mouth enveloped him, Dean groaned, long and low, letting out a string of detached syllables that might at one time have matured into words before he came. Cas paused, stroking him reverently as he pulled back. Dean shivered through his climax, blinking a few times to clear his vision and his head as he came down and settled into a pleasant low. He leaned back, head resting against the fogged glass of the car window.  
  
Cas' hands still wandered across the plane of Dean's stomach and chest, and Dean could feel Cas pressing hard and hot against the dip between his thigh and hip. Groggily, Dean held out his arms, saying, “Come here, Cas.” Cas didn't hesitate, aligning their bodies again and pressing his lips against Dean's jaw.  
  
Still breathing hard, his heart still racing in his chest, Dean reached down and unzipped Cas' jeans, taking him in his hand and stroking him fast, roughly, like he'd stroked himself a few nights before with images of Cas running rampant through his mind. It was nothing like the slow, experimental touches that Cas had implemented; it was harsh and passionate and messy, and Cas groaned and twisted above him, eyes squeezed shut.  
  
“Come on, Cas,” Dean found himself muttering without conscious thought. “Come on, let me see how human you are...Let go of all that damn angel crap. Let it go, Cas....” It didn't take long. Cas' fingers dug into Dean's arms, his jaw hanging slack. He let out a grunted, almost feral string of “Ah-ah-ah-”  before coming in generous, hot spurts on Dean's stomach, just below the hem of his hiked up shirt.  
  
Cas tensed for several long moments before relaxing, letting himself curl into the space between Dean's body and the back of the seat. Suddenly he seemed very small, a reminder that there really was nothing left of Castiel the angel in him; now he was only Cas the human.  
  
Dean took the condom off with a grimace, rolling down the window with some effort and tossing it out. “You shouldn't litter, Dean,” Cas said sleepily, not looking up.  
  
“I'll pick it up later.”  
  
“No you won't.”  
  
He was probably right. Dean could only muster a noncommittal grunt.  
  
They were silent for a long time, and Dean wasn't sure how he felt about that. With Cas pressed up against him and the fog of lust receding, he had time to reflect on his ruffled clothes and the stickiness of the semen drying on his stomach. This should have felt monumental, should have felt at least eight different kinds of fucked-up, but to his surprise, it didn't. He had no idea what this meant about what was to come in the future, about how he'd handle this down the road, about how – or if – he'd bring it up to Sam. The number of questions that buzzed around in his head like angry bees was staggering. For the sake of his own sanity, he pushed them away, filed them under ‘Shit that might get dealt with later if it can't be avoided.’  
  
Long after Dean thought Cas had drifted off to sleep, Cas spoke: “It's still very quiet.”  
  
“It won't be forever,” Dean found himself saying. “I'd say enjoy it while you can.”  
  
“I believe I know now,” Cas mused a moment later, “why so many angels have fallen for this.”  
  
“For what?” Dean asked dubiously.  
  
“This connection. This...closeness. The only other time I've felt anything like it was...was when I pulled you from Hell.” Dean looked down at him with his eyebrows furrowed. “Your soul and my Grace...they...bonded. Only momentarily, but it left its mark on each of us. Ever since then I...I think my fall has been imminent.”  
  
“So it really is my fault,” Dean said bitterly. “Figures...”  
  
“I'm glad for it,” Cas assured him, and Dean squinted at him. Not long ago, Cas had been mourning the loss of his Grace, and now he was glad about it? Could the guy make up his mind already? “There's an allure to humanity. A shine. I didn't see it before.”  
  
“That's just cheesy, Cas.”  
  
“But it's true. I told you humanity has a song of its own. I still can't hear it yet, but maybe one day I will...And I look forward to it.”  
  
Cas fell silent, but he seemed like he had more on his mind, more he wanted to say. Dean was unsure whether he wanted to prompt him to continue or not; he had no idea what would come out of the guy's mouth if he did.  
  
Eventually, Cas did so on his own, hesitantly saying, “This should...feel wrong.”  
  
“Probably,” Dean agreed.  
  
“Does it?” Cas asked. “To you?”  
  
After a long moment, Dean shook his head. “No.”  
  
“It's confusing. Doesn't make any sense...” At that, Dean laughed bittersweetly.  
  
“Yeah, well...that's humanity for you, Cas,” he said. “You'll probably figure it out before I do.” **  
**


End file.
